Anfhalzig - The Founding
The Founding Anfhalzig has its roots in the successes in confederation and urbanisation of the Human Vaughnic tribes situated some thousand miles or so to the west of the Fey Wastes. A former patchwork of petty Princedoms, Duchies and Greater or Lesser Baronies perpetually engaged in war, intrigue and one-upmanship. Eventually, ennobled by the industrial and rationalist programmes of the great empires to the furthest west, the power of the Vaughn coalesced into the first Parliamentary Republic of Voleran, and its first city, Vaughnberg: 'The City of Spires' was founded amidst the miry tangles of the Vaughn Delta. Those that accepted and acceded to the franchise were welcomed by the emergent power of the republic, cowed by technology and offers of trade - and that most radical of notions: limited social welfare. There were others amongst the Vaughnic tribes that responded with reactionary bile, and attempted to fight back. Economy, Industry and efficiency eventually saw the better of valour, and those that would resist suddenly found themselves in a mass exodus - now: exiles. It is this displacement that drove the Ullya, Alfar and Katullya peoples east, and into the Fey Wastes. It was after a hundred and fifty two years of wandering that this coalition of the three tribes found their way into what would later become Anfhalzig. The three kindreds had slowly, filtrated across the populations and generations of the surrounding kindreds of men until they were amidst Humanity's furthest frontier - and within Elfin lands. "Thus, there was Anfhal, son of Danafhal, Prince of the Alfar and Second Baron of Osterbach, through the matrilineal line. Anfhal, exiled Prince of the Blood, shepherd of the people saw a prize in his dreams, leading him to the land where the Sun emerged betwix'd mighty peaks of knotted pines and snow of bluish glass - shadows cast long into the deepest of valleys. There, the great scions of the Vaughn, warriors indefatigable, unyielding as steel held fast to the true ways, the old ways. The sons of Ullya, Alfhar, and the daughters of Katullya were to carve out a nation under the eastern stars. Winds of destiny made manifest drove their steeds; great mares and stallions out from across the west and afore them drove anfhal a flurry of hooves and beating wings - these were the great Knight-Riders of the Vaughn, the wildhost: a swirling maelstrom of cloaks, lance-pennant and war banners curling in the tempest left in their wake. Against such a wall of iron plate and chain, could any opponent stand? There is one that would. Ancient, with memories that passed into the millenias, beyond the ken of mortal man. Sindar - perverse elfin of the most heinous countenance - not the light bringers of the West, that elevated man beyond the beasts that bray and cow in the presence of the moon, but those that would have us driven back into the sea, or walking on all fours like lesser slave kine. Kinslayers, the untamed, incestuous, malformed and bitter a race of monsters from beyond the cirlces of heaven. Anfhal and Krúúd, chief amongst his bannermen seasoned there for four winters, and between them built a great hall of wood and stone upon the crest of a mighty hill. Banded gates of imperishable bronze held their new capitol tight against the onset of winter and foes. Living was good, under their expert husbandry the fluvial plains, and southern slopes of the mountains of this new domain were alive with the bounty of the Gods. The Grey ones looked out upon this new paradise with envious eyes, and sought to undo all the good that had been done. They summoned those sworn to the Raven-made-malicious, oathbound to see the world to its undoing, several shades of their grey kinships and their decadent princes to lead them. Neriss, the Serpent-Son, who's fell magicks were like the tough of a great dark wyrm-drake, with him- his kinsman Maleric, the haughtiest lancer of his kind - a being in whom the concept of cruelty had one of the limits of its very condtion. Finally, the most warlike amongst that host- Abhkaton - the destroyer, the merciless. The despoiler. One who's hubris knew no bounds. To them, they drew a great host, a score of thousands. To drive us out, to drive us into grave soil. Not us. Not now. Not then. The outer villages were the first to burn, man, woman and babe put to sword and spit through with spear. Our people were left to burn, our livelihoods, ashes - sodden with the fatty air of tallow-candles and charred meat. Elfin-kind are meant to be graceful, magnanimous to all those they see as sentient. These Grey-Wretches, friendless curs, rabid dogs saw us as prey beasts and sport. They were wrong. As we were wronged, we would wrong them. Anfhal was swift, and dispatched the cunning Krúúd to the fore of the campaign. Riding with some one thousand retainers and bannermen he sped out to meet the foe at the fords of the Linar River. And, through forced marches across several nights, he caught them unawares on the dawn of the eleventh day, while they were preparing to break camp. It was upon the Van of Abhkaton's host that he would fall upon. A trident, three prongs that fell upon front, flank and rear - gutted the formation and sent them scattering to the north. Not before long was the despoiler caught amidst our riders, and lost an arm to an errant sabre, indeed, as he looked beyond the helm of his foe, he marked the face of Krúúd - one that he would know well. The sortie a success, they fell back, leaving thirteen of their dead behind, in exchange for almost five hundred of the enemy." The Lay of Krúúd. Fourth Canticle of Anfhal.